The Experiment Pt. 04

Work is barely a distraction, my coworkers are more annoyance than anything. My older coworker is the only one astute enough to pick-up on my moping. She gives me a little one-armed hug, she tells me it's hard to be "young and in love". I'm shocked by her statement. She saw me with him only once, and yet she knew it before I even knew it.

I also broke the rules of my experiment. If I was truly being his sub, I should have gone to meet his family without question. I'm supposed to obey my Dom, or be deservedly punished for disobedience. A concept I didn't really absorb when I started this experiment. Something I'm not sure I can follow.

When I'm riding home on the bus, I'm finally brave enough to text him. A simple hello, I'm thinking of you.

As soon as I hit send, I regret it. My text is boring and insincere. It sounds like something a chat bot would say. I cuss at myself. I'm ready to flog my own backside with frustration. Why is it so hard for me to speak the things I need to say? Why am I afraid of this?

He doesn't reply until I get home. And his text is equally unenthusiastic: I am well, just leaving to go to work.

At the restaurant, or the Dungeon?

The Dungeon.

My stomach is suddenly in my throat. I feel sick with jealousy as my mind envisions him in the service of a client. I do not want him spanking another woman into ecstasy, or to be rented out to other horny patrons. I don't want to share Mr. Damian. But that's not my place to say. And it's his job, the job that probably pays better than being a cook. His tips alone are probably better at the Dungeon. After my first appointment I gave him a 25% tip. I would've given him more if I could have afforded it.

I try to reply with something that isn't filled with the raging jealousy I feel and steady my shaking hands.

I miss you but I hope you have a good night. Don't work too hard ;)

A lame sentiment that feels passive aggressive, not remotely close enough to the truth.

The night will be long as usual. But it is what Mr. Damian must do.

Now I feel even guiltier. He wishes me a goodnight, and I wish him one as well.

This is not forgiveness of my disobedience, but he is still at least talking to me. Maybe I need to be punished; maybe he'll tell me to spank myself. And I would absolutely do it. I would get down on all fours and bark like a dog if he wants it.

D/s things aside, I still need to apologize, to say that I should've gone to the restaurant. I didn't consider that for him, family is a very big deal. And being a foreigner and refugee, my refusal could've been seen as prejudice. Something I didn't consider in my own anxious thoughts. If anything, I think he is an incredible product of a very hard-working family and culture. A man working two jobs, and spending his only free time with a woman who demands more physical exertion for her pleasure.

<><><>

After a night of tossing and turning, I've decided to be brave...sort of. I text him at 10:00 am, what I assume is his morning. I asked him if he would like to meet for lunch. Something that will not allow my tempestuousness to be played out. Something casual.

Thirty minutes later, he texts back. I eagerly take off my nitrile gloves and dig my phone out of my lab coat's pocket.

Good morning Miss Siena. What time did you have in mind?

I take it as a good sign when he calls me Miss Siena.

How about 12pm? We could meet somewhere.

I will pick you up to go out for lunch. Please put your hair in a braid. I will contact you once I have arrived.

The thought of him coming to my work again makes my blood pressure rise, but it's only reasonable, if also a convenient way to put me in my humble place. I go to the bathroom and hastily put my hair in a braid, forced to use a rubber band from our office supply when the ancient band I keep in my purse snaps apart in my haste. The unglamorous beige band of rubber stays in place, and I go back to my workbench, staring at the clock.

At 11:55, I grab my jacket and head out to the parking lot, waiting by the curb so that I will be there ready to go the moment he arrives. It's lightly raining outside, but my rain trench has a hood. I'm standing there holding onto my phone when I hear the high-pitched sound of a motorcycle coming up the road, slowing down to turn into the business complex's driveway, coming into our parking lot.

I take a step forward so he'll see me waiting for him, watching as he pulls into the parking space directly in front of me. He looks like something from another world, leaning forward on his sporty bike, dressed in his black and grey jacket with black pants. I move to get onto his bike, but he stops me. He's taking off his helmet so that I can wear it, revealing his scrutinizing expression. His blue eyes are hiding that secret smile that I always want to see, even as his eyes are scanning me.

I go to tug on his helmet, anxious to pull away before my coworkers look out the window to see me and my mystery motorcycle-rider, but he stops me. I realize he's staring at the end of my braid, dangling over the collar of my jacket. He reaches out and touches the rubber band that's haphazardly clinging to the end of my hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. There's some amusement at this, along with something else unknowable in his expression.

He releases me and I put on the helmet, then climb on behind him. He's turned his head to the side, checking to be sure I'm on and secure, then off we go.

He drives to an old diner that has the quaint bones of something once elegant, but is now run down. It smells like old cigarette smoke and grease. But the server is an older woman who speaks in the most hilarious quips and clearly knows Damian as a regular. She tells me what to order because I'm too young and skinny to know better. I agree to get the chicken and waffles, even though that sounds like too much food for lunch.

While we're waiting for our food, Damian asks about my job and what it's like. He's being more formal again, behaving like I would expect on someone's first date. We haven't kissed or embraced yet; he's keeping a distance from me physically.

Staying on the topic of jobs, I ask about his work. At the Dungeon. Is it busy? Is he working tonight? I can see his face tense up, his eyes meeting mine with scrutiny.

"It is what it always is," he replies, "it is work. I am working tonight, and will be working the night after that."

I can hear the edge in his voice, a warning. I shouldn't have asked, my question implying more than calendar-based curiosity. But my longing for him is transforming into jealousy. I reply with a meek nod, and say nothing else.

Thankfully the food arrives, and it is amazing. Our tense exchange is forgotten; he smiles as I take bite after bite, mumbling how good it is. The server comes back and asks Damian about his mom and his sister. She wants to know if they're still fighting. He tips his head with a gesture of his hand that means "sort-of". She takes his guarded response and wisely doesn't press, observant that in my presence he's not going to say. She walks off with a pat to his shoulder.

I let him take a bite of his mac and cheese, and wait to ask him my question. "Is it your older sister or younger sister that's fighting with your mom?"

He slowly wipes his mouth with a napkin, and answers it's his older sister, Maral. I nod, and leave it at that. A few bites later, he adds that his mother and sister disagree over things they are both right about. And that they are alot alike.

I tell him I've argued a fair amount with my own mother. I can see he is curious, so I elaborate by explaining that I intentionally don't live in the same town as my mother, but my compromise was to choose a college that was only two hours away. It's hard to be close with her, yet it hurts to be too far away.

He nods his head with a sad smile. "It was like that with my father."

I notice the use of past tense, but I don't dare ask more when I can feel somberness brewing.

The rain is coming down again, hard enough that the bottom of my pants legs that have just barely dried will get soaked again on the ride back. He pays the bill while I'm in the bathroom, and is waiting by their ancient cash register when I return. We go to stand in the double door vestibule that leads to the outside and gear up before exiting into the elements. His wet hair is drying in this wavy kink over his crown that I smooth back with my hand, garnering a little smile from him. I suddenly feel this tenderness when our eyes meet. I feel selfish and lascivious, ignorant to what is inside his heart. What little we know of each other is overlooked when I just want to be satisfied by him.

I open my mouth to apologize, to say I'm sorry for snubbing his family, and sorry for the loss of his father, but his eyes seal up this vulnerable expression. He hands me his helmet to put on, then pauses.

Suddenly he asks if I still like my helmet, the one he bought me.

"Of course," I easily answer. "I love it."

My answer is a giant Freudian slip, with a ricochet of a response. His eyes look away, a thoughtful glance down, and he goes towards the door, heading into the rain.

The ride back to my work is slow and also over too quickly. He pats my leg when it's time for me to depart his bike, and I gently give his middle a squeeze, an invisible hug that only he will feel. I run back to the door so I can stay dry under the small overhang, and wait to see him pull away. Before he goes, he gives the engine a little rev, a growl as he sits up in the seat. Instead of a wave goodbye, just that little rev with his visor pulled down so I can't see his face. The ache in my heart knows how much I like this cocky maneuver, how much I love this man. But I worry that I am not enough. Maybe I am not the person he needs.

Later that night, I have a dream. I'm back at the Dungeon and walking down the white hallway towards the burgundy room that I always go to. The door is open and I see Mr. Damian waiting for me by the little red bench, a tell-tale smirk on his face. Except someone has already taken my spot. Another woman is kneeling in my place, her naked body turned away from me. Mr. Damian doesn't speak but the woman rises up and bends over, exposing herself to his flogger. He begins to whip her with steady, harsh smacks while she soundlessly writhes in rapture. Soon enough, she makes it known that she is climaxing, a long exaggerated howl with mouth gaping open. She's fallen down on her knees, slavering over him when another faceless woman appears at the bench. Damian begins to flog this new woman, while the original woman is still down on the floor, clinging to his legs. The second woman also climaxes then falls to the ground, joining the original woman as she tugs on Damian's pants. A third woman appears out of thin air, and the cycle of flogging and climaxing repeats itself until a haram of women are piled up at Damian's feet. He keeps diligently flogging as the women at his feet are tearing off his clothes like hungry animals, mewing his name in hideous harmony, demanding he give them more. Soon the group of women is nothing more than a writhing pile of naked flesh that is tugging Damian down, into their clawed hands. I hear the sound of his groans as he sinks into the pit of waiting mouths, a mixture of orgasmic pain as they savagely stroke and lick him, a deranged orgy with the man I love at the center of it. My brain begins to reject this appalling image, rejecting the vision of Damian succumbing to this disloyal activity. I wake up trembling and nauseous, covered in a cold sweat; my body still convinced of the terror while my eyes try to forget what my imagination cruelly conjured up.

<><><>

Friday arrives and I am hopeful. Like every other working woman, we are thankful the week is over, and looking forward to our weekend with perhaps the addition of some friendly company. After our lunch date, I'm surprised that I haven't heard from him. Since the first night he came to my apartment, we have traded texts nearly daily, the rote check-in to see how my day was. But I haven't heard from him since Tuesday. Two days of silence. And it has not improved my guilt or anxiety for my actions.

I'm grateful my experiment led to this, that it led me to Damian. But in all these days of our happy, lusty sessions, a deep seated paranoia has been stewing. A thought that I kept pushing away, a fear I kept denying. It was easy when his continued presence distracted me, but the sudden lack of his passionate affection has given this fear a foothold in my heart.

What if there's an entirely different reason for him to avoid me, or ghost me?

I know my nightmare was the sum of all my fears about his job. The job of professional pain-delivering and pleasure-giving. I've been thinking about the smiling seductiveness of Mr. Damian, the man that I fell for so swiftly, and wonder if his act works a little too well. Are there other women who are also pining away for his unique services? Other men? People both lonely and sexually repressed that have, like me, only just discovered that the man who can make all of their dreams come true is only an appointment booking away. I have been worrying about it every night since he left last Sunday afternoon, and the worry is slowly growing into a green monster of jealousy.

At work, I hope I'll get a text message for another lunch date with him. By noon, no messages have appeared on my phone. Then I hope perhaps he will just show up. An hour later, and there is no sound of a motorcycle. At 2:00 pm, I'm forced to eat an instant cup of soup in our cramped breakroom that always smells like someone's day-old ham sandwich. I try not to fixate on my worry, but the green monster is lurking inside me, trying to claw its way out.

By 4:00 pm, I break down and text him.

Happy Friday. Are you working at The Dungeon tonight?

His response is a little curt, or rushed: Yes, I am working tonight, most likely late.

How late will Mr. Damian be working this evening?

I shouldn't have asked, but I can't help myself. His reply doesn't come as swiftly.

Late, near midnight.

Would you text me later? I don't mind waiting up for Mr. D... really

His reply takes even longer, as my stomach twists uneasily.

I shall let you know.

It's so abrupt, it doesn't even feel like him. No flirtation or engagement. He's irritated, with me or with something else? Is his work making him take on more clients? The latest appointment slot you could ever book at the Dungeon was 9:00 pm, and the longest appointment is 2 hours if you've got some serious coin to pay for it. That means that he could be done by 11:00 pm, or 11:30 if he has to clean up and shut down the place before he goes for the night.

I'm so shaken up that I tell my supervisor I don't feel well and need to go home. It's almost 5:00 anyway and no one is being terribly productive at the lab. But I think my unsteady emotions are showing as my boss gives me a resigned smile and tells me to go home and take care of myself.

I'm riding the bus home but it could be taking me to Canada for all I know. I'm staring at my phone, re-reading his messages and trying to parse some hidden meaning from his blunt words. He could be understandably tired from working two jobs. He could be exhausted and a little fatigued with my neediness. He just saw me three days ago. What the hell does she want now?

I want to be held by him and kissed and...many other things. I want to be soothed by everything that he is. And despite seeing him just a few days ago, I feel like there is distance. My steamrolling blunders that I didn't go meet his family, or the fact that I keep asking about his work at the Dungeon, are both reasons enough to be frustrated with me. Miss Sienna doesn't care to establish ties beyond sex, but she doesn't want Mr. Damian to be with anyone else. Does he think I only want him for physical gratification?

And then I feel a chill up my spine. Is that all I want?

The answer in my heart is a resounding no. I feel something deep inside of me that I have never felt for another human being. I feel like... I would die without him. That he is everything essential to my existence. I need his physical touch like I need air and water; I need to taste his love and hold him close. But I have not conveyed this important data to him. I have not said the four-letter word that would be integral in communicating the massive place he holds in my life. Instead, I have badgered him about his job and indicated my growing suspicion about his whereabouts. Instead, I have only portrayed that I want him to fuck me, as often as possible.

The green monster is hearing my humiliated tears, and she's fed up. She's telling me this is bullshit. She's telling me that I'm being hurt by him. I'm being manipulated. Why can't I ask him how late he'll work? Why doesn't he want to text me after work? He's seen me after work before. NOW he's tired? NOW he doesn't want to spank me or fuck me anymore? WHY?

Because he's fucking someone else. Some slut client who discretely gives him what I won't. Someone that doesn't need to meet his family because they are only there for a suck and a fuck. Someone who doesn't ask questions and doesn't demand. Someone less complicated than me.

The green monster gets me to sit up and yank the cord to stop the bus. I get off and walk across the street. I wait for the next bus that will take me back towards downtown. Towards the Dungeon.

Together, the green monster and I are formulating a plan. We will go to the Dungeon, and see if he is truly working. He's got his motorcycle and it has to be parked somewhere. I've never seen it out front, but I wasn't really looking before. There might be a back parking lot I'm not aware of.

And even if he is working, maybe I should see who's going in. Maybe there would be a woman or man that would greet him with kisses or hugs when he answers the front door. Maybe he'd kiss them.

The monster and I are fuming. We deserve to know what's going on! We are feeling righteous indignation that doesn't balk at the absurdity of our plan. Even as I feel how bizarre it is to be getting off the bus one stop further than the one closest to the Dungeon, just so Damian doesn't accidentally spot me on the street.

It's drizzling again, so I pull the hood up on my rain trench, which gives me the cover I want for my stealthy approach to the Dungeon. My eyes scan the street and I don't see his motorcycle anywhere. It's now almost 7:00 pm. He would assuredly be working by now, and for a moment the green monster is ready to roar with rage.

Then I remember the website did mention something about "discrete" parking which I previously ignored since I am without a car. I quickly pull up the site on my phone, and there is a map with their parking lot marked. It's behind the building/house, accessed from a side street and I see that there is a road up ahead. I follow the map's directions, along with the green monster's.

When I come to the end of the block I turn at the side street indicated on the map. It looks to be an alleyway, a road accessed by a garbage company based on the long row of dumpsters and recycling bins. I walk towards the shadowed end of the alley that will end directly behind the Dungeon. My footsteps suddenly seem loud on the wet pavement, echoing in the narrow alley. But my eyes are seeing the outlines of cars, and the shiny handlebars of what looks like a bike. His motorcycle.

The green monster is a little disappointed to see his bike parked so responsibly off to the side, nearest to the building. It's covered in raindrops, meaning it's been here a while. But the monster looks at the other vehicles. Three cars in total: a bland silver SUV, a white Prius, and a showy blue BMW.